


Fire and Ice

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: What each thinks they lack, the other provides.





	Fire and Ice

Arms that have every right to be weary by now pull Cas close, holding him as if he’s the most treasured thing in the universe. Outside the Bunker, a winter storm rages—cold, piercing winds ravaging vulnerable pines and wayward souls. Here, beneath the covers, there’s warmth; there’s the scent of skin and alpine soap and heady masculine musk. Here, there is Dean.  
  
He’s a flame, always has been. He burns with a passion and energy that he always tries to twist into smoke when the lights go on. But Cas has always seen him for what he tries not to be—bright, steady light in the black, black void; glowing and clement as the engine of his beloved car. Dean burns so vivid without meaning to that he cut through the horrors of Hell itself, even as his very soul became tortured and tainted.  
  
In some way, Cas has always been in need of that warmth. He’s always hovered close to Dean, needing his nearness to melt the cold angel heart he’d once had. Now they both have this thing that shutters out the biting wind and unforgiving ice.  
  
They’ve shared this space long enough now that Cas recognizes when Dean isn’t sleeping well. He’ll tense and shift and linger just under the surface of slumber. On nights like tonight, when he needs to keep warm, his skin will be flushed and almost fevered to the touch. And yet, every time he jerks to the side or starts or shifts, his body never leaves contact with Castiel’s. He’ll keep one strong arm curled around Cas’s body—leave a leg crooked over Cas’s leg. Even when he shuffles to almost the other side of the bed, he’ll keep his fingers laced through his angel’s.  
  
Cas doesn’t mind in the least. Contact like this is limited in daylight; sure they share the odd brush of hands, but it’s only whenever they’re out of the eye of anyone else that Dean will kiss him, or hold him like he does in sleep. Cas can’t complain too much about Dean’s shyness in terms of publicly displaying his affection; because every time they are alone he makes up for it with searing kisses and scorching touch.  
  
But it’s nights like this that Castiel cherishes the most—when they can just be, together and still and silent. The howl of the wind outside isn’t even much of a disturbance—it serves to impress on him that he’s here, safe, with this beautiful man of his.  
  
Dean shifts, his head lolling to the side. His face relaxes in a soft smile; his breathing evens out.  
  
“Mine,” he murmurs. He holds Cas just a little tighter, and the angel basks in the warmth.  
  
Despite his limitless power, Cas has no way of knowing how much his own presence soothes the man he loves. Dean knows he burns with something, but to him it’s a destructive thing. His fire isn’t gentle and warming; as far as he’s concerned he rages too hot—he’s too boisterous, too loud. He tries everything to slake that fiery heat: booze, hunting, being a smart ass. When this thing first developed with him and Cas, Dean thought that he was simply trying to smother the blaze again.  
  
Only, Cas doesn’t let his fire go out. He just makes the intensity more bearable. He’s soothing, calm—a dusting of gentle snow in the desert of Dean Winchester. Dean knows that Cas will never show that he hurts from not being strong enough to do much as kiss him on the cheek in public. But Dean wants to be careful; he’s so good at screwing good things up and, Sam not withstanding, Castiel is the best thing to ever happen to him.  
  
Dean’s dreams have always been disturbed by nightmares. Memories cut into his subconscious with the cruel precision of a jagged, rusty blade. He bleeds and screams in the space that should offer him comfort. But with Castiel there, the fire of Hell can only flicker in the darkness. Even in the grips of unconsciousness, Dean knows when he’s in danger of losing that saving contact with Cas’s skin and body. He knows, because every morning when they wake, they’re always touching, and the blessed, cooling relief greets Dean along with the light of day.  
  
The night after the winter storm, he wakes slowly, feeling as if something dragged him by the hair from his dream. He wakes wanting to stay asleep; he wakes dreading the day, and that dread turns into a ball of lead anger in the pit of his stomach, because a man should love his life as far as Dean’s concerned. He wants to spit nails as sleep scurries away from his grasp. But then he feels the soothing balm—the sensation of skin against skin, and he looks in his right.  
  
Cas is there, head crooked away from Dean, one arm above his head like some dreaming dancer. The other is splayed over Dean’s tummy, his knuckles brushing the bare patch of skin exposed by Dean’s shirt.  
  
A tranquility the likes of which only Cas can make him feel spreads from the point where their skin touches. The hot forge within Dean cools; the pressure slowly disappears from his body. Smiling, still with sleep blurring his vision, Dean rolls to the side and brushes his lips against Cas’s.  
  
“Mine,” he whispers.  
  
Cas smiles, not entirely asleep. “Yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
